


Kingslayers

by AnnabelWinslow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canonical Incest, F/M, Smut, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnabelWinslow/pseuds/AnnabelWinslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to King's Landing after his imprisonment and maiming, Jaime Lannister finds he cannot pick up exactly where he left off. Continues from near the end of the TV series' third season, and contains mild spoilers up to the end of <i>A Storm of Swords</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> This story belongs more in the TV universe than the book one, continuing from the end of "Myhsa," but reimagining the scene where Jaime and Cersei are reunited. There are some minor spoilers of details from the later book universe, but no major revelations; for the most part I am veering sharply off-canon and into smutland.

His bedchamber in White Sword Tower seemed small, the air stale and thick. Jaime supposed that after so long on the road, his body had become accustomed to hard ground and open air. The fine bedclothes seemed to smother him; he cast them off onto the floor every night, and every morning a maidservant dutifully replaced them.

On the morning of his fourth day back in King’s Landing, Jaime smiled as he lowered himself into the steaming water of a square stone tub. The sheer luxury of ample amounts of clean, hot water nearly made up for the feeling of suffocation in the city. He did not really need another bath, but it was so good to be clean again.

A thick cushion of folded linen had been thoughtfully placed at the tub’s edge, as Qyburn had instructed that Jaime’s bandages still had to be kept dry, and Jaime rested his right forearm on it, while allowing most of the rest of his body to sink below the surface.

An attendant hurried by, eyes demurely downcast, carrying a basket of towels. Her hair was straw-colored, like Brienne’s, though her shape was more round than mannish.

He thought of Brienne in her tower cell, and then ruefully of the bathhouse in Harrenhal. He had told her things there he would take back now, if he could. The pain and his fever had brought with them a strange need to justify himself to her: to provoke pity or understanding or _something_ beyond dismissive condemnation in her flat, bovine face. That had been a childish impulse. _Lannisters don’t act like fools_ , his father had said. _A lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of the sheep._

Brienne’s face came to him again, her broad cheeks flushed with heat and wrath as she stood bolt upright over him, water running down her naked form. At the memory, his left hand drifted down the heated skin of his stomach before he caught himself and pulled it away.

Tilting his face to the ceiling, he let the water creep up and fill his ears, blotting out sound. _Like in a womb._ He closed his eyes, too, shutting out the light, and Brienne, and everything, and thought of Cersei.

\-----

The day of his return, he’d found his sister in her chambers, and alone, thank the gods. He’d imagined their reunion a thousand times since leaving King’s Landing, although his visions had changed somewhat after they’d taken his hand.

Sometimes he thought of a kind and comforting Cersei, tears starting from her wide green eyes as she looked at his maimed limb, her arms coming immediately around him and her soft, small fingers stroking through his hair. Often he pictured Cersei angry and vengeful at those who had hurt him, her rage turning quickly into passion as she clung to him, covering his face with kisses, their bodies moving together between smooth sheets.

Other times, he conjured her repulsed: Cersei shrinking away from him, her face twisted in disgust at seeing his scarred stump. She had always delighted in her twin as her mirror image, but now? Now he was a broken and warped reflection, and she could not bear even to look at him. Jaime had returned to these particular thoughts many times, turning them over and over in his mind, hoping that familiarity would remove the sting.

But outside her chamber, poised to knock, the fear that nearly paralyzed him was still as sharp as a new blade, and his heart had beat so fast that his head spun. Every etched groove on the door had suddenly jumped into harsh relief: vivid detail to mark the exact point of no return.

He’d taken a long breath, and knocked.

In the end, Cersei had not seemed to even notice his missing hand, not at first. To be fair, he had taken no notice of whether anyone else was in the room before crushing her to him greedily, all thought leaving him other than a palpable need to be as close to her as possible. Everything had fallen away: his deformity, the long separation, even the reality of the still-open door. There were only Cersei’s lips on his, Cersei’s breasts against his chest, Cersei’s taste filling his mouth.

She had emerged from that madness a moment before he had, finding the clarity to shut and bar the door, and then to hold him at arm’s length, taking stock of his gaunt face, his beard, and then—

“Jaime.” Her voice had sounded hollow. “Oh, Jaime.”

He had felt ashamed. “Most of him, anyway.”

He had seen her struggle with herself, then deliberately shift her gaze from his bandaged wrist. Her eyes had met his, and then she was drawing him toward the bed, pulling him down with her. She had pulled the heavy draperies closed around them, blocking out the light from the chamber’s windows, surrounding them in a thick blackness.

“My Jaime,” she had whispered, fingers flying instantly to his laces. His cock had been stiff since the moment she had opened the door, and he groaned as she drew it out and into her mouth.

“Gods,” he had hissed, “I have missed you… Cersei… Cersei I’ll… not this time, not in your mouth…” With his good hand, he had pushed her away and rolled them over. Then the two of them had ripped away the layers of cloth that separated them—her skirts and underskirts and smallclothes—and moaned together as he sank inside her.

Her heels dug into his back, growing frantic as he began to move. “Too slow,” she had panted. “I don’t want slow. Faster, Jaime, now, I want to feel you come.”

Obediently, he had exploded into her, nearly crying in his pleasure and relief. For that moment, in the dark and in Cersei, he was whole and home again.

\-----

Jaime had commanded that Brienne be brought to him in the courtyard of the Red Keep at midday. He’d not seen her since giving her over to the custody of Ser Balon Swann on the day of their arrival at King’s Landing. Footsteps on the stone path heralded her arrival, and he turned as she stepped through the arched gateway, attended by a guard.

Her countenance was solemnity made flesh, but he could not help but burst into laughter, she looked so ill at ease. “My Lady Brienne! What have they done to you?”

She shuffled her feet uncomfortably in their tight slippers. “The Septa… she said you sent her.” The blue dress was only slightly more becoming than the ridiculous pink costume she’d been given in Harrenhal.

Jaime motioned for the guard to leave them. “I said you were to be given new clothes. I didn’t tell anyone to do—“ he gestured at the wench’s torso, “—whatever this is.”

Brienne’s scowl grew deeper, and the skin of her throat, bare above the neckline of her new gown, became flushed and blotchy. “Did you summon me here just to mock me, ser? I would have expected a man in your position to have more pressing concerns.”

Jaime nodded sagely. “True, my lady. There are so many kings to kill. I have never been busier.”

She tried to hook her thumbs in her non-existent swordbelt, then, finding only a smooth bodice, crossed her arms awkwardly in front of her and said nothing.

“Loras Tyrell is convinced that you have already taken Renly off my list,” Jaime continued, “against all the evidence of your blameless character and my assurances of your unwavering nobility. Is not that strange? Why, it is as though a king’s death can soil even the most spotless reputation.”

Brienne looked tired. “I have told the truth. It is not my fault no one can see that.”

He took pity on her. “I can see it. And I think, in his heart, Ser Loras does too. But he is looking for someone to punish, and your shadow creature is not in any of our cells. He wants to put you on trial.”

She squared her heavy shoulders. “I am not afraid of Ser Loras’s justice.”

“No? Then you are even stupider than you look. He will make you suffer, wench. Think of what you would do to him, if you were in his place.”

For the first time, he saw her resolution falter, but her blue eyes were still determined. “So be it.”

He felt his blood rise, and he seized her arm roughly, shaking her slightly. “No! Brienne, will you go to your death just to spite me?”

The silk of her sleeve was paper-thin, and beneath it he felt hard muscle slide as she shook him off. “What would you have me do, ser?” she spat at him. “You have me under guard in your tower. I am to stand trial, and what then?” Her blue eyes flashed fire at him. “Shall I try to sway my judges with even prettier dresses? Shall I soften them with weeping or false contrition for something I never did?”

He stepped toward her. The courtyard was empty, but some high windows above the gate stood open. “No,” he said quietly, next to her ear. “There will be no trial.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to escape,” he said.

She staggered back from him, mouth slightly open. “How… how am I going to—“

 _Not out loud!_ In a flash, Jamie had pulled her close to him again, stifling her next word with his mouth. Her body went rigid in his arms, her arms flying up to his shoulders, preparing to shove him away. He slid his face to her neck, and spoke in an urgent whisper. “ _Quiet, Brienne! We may not be alone_.”

Her hands froze on his shoulders, then relaxed a degree. Her body still felt stiff in his grip, but at least she wasn’t moving. There was a long pause, while they stood together, just breathing, the heat from her throat radiating against his lips and face.

Then— “ _What do you want me to do?”_ she whispered.

“ _Tonight, at two hours past midnight, someone will come to you. Do exactly as he says.”_

She nodded slightly, and he waited for her to say something else. When she was silent, he straightened his head to look at her, their faces almost touching. In the flat slippers, Brienne was exactly his height, her eyes level with his own. For once, her expression was difficult to read.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said softly.

He escorted her back to the waiting guard, and she was gone. _I suppose I may never see her again_ , Jaime thought. _If all goes well, that is._  

\-----

In the evening, when he returned to his chambers, Cersei was waiting for him. She had already closed the windows and pulled the brocade curtains across them, shutting out the waning autumn sunlight. He collapsed into a chair, pulling her on top of him, straddling his lap. Beneath her skirts, she was bare, and his fingers found her already wet as well.

“At dinner,” she said, as he stroked her, “whenever I sip my wine, that’s a kiss. Whenever I touch the stem of my cup, that’s my hand on your cock.”

“I don’t like this game,” he said, his lips busy at her neck.

“Why not?”

“I know how it ends. Me hard, and you drunk and asleep.”

She laughed, then shuddered as he circled his thumb against her. “Does that mean you don’t want to play?”

“Never,” he said, and felt her clench around his hand, her face flushed pink and glorious. With a groan, he pulled her down on top of him, clumsily, the last spasm of her climax tightening around him. Cersei squealed, a high, feminine sound, her hands coming up to his shoulders and squeezing.

At the touch, he thought of Brienne’s fingers digging into him, and of the astonishing blue of her eyes as she said goodbye to the first man who had ever kissed her. He felt himself grow harder, and Cersei gasped. He thrust roughly up into her, his hand on her slim waist.

“You like to torture me,” he said hoarsely, keeping his gaze fixed on her lovely face, deep in shadows. “I think you hate me, sometimes.”

“Not hate,” she said, reaching between her legs to rub where they were joined. “But sometimes I covet.”


	2. Brienne

After eating the oatcakes and cheese left for her on the cell’s one small table, Brienne had tried, unsuccessfully, to doze. Failing utterly, she had determined to rest. Ultimately, she had abandoned that too, and had passed the evening pacing restlessly from the wooden door to the wall with the high, barred window.

She could cross the room in three long strides or four short ones, she had found. She did not care for the thin slippers Septa Donayse had brought for her, but they did have one advantage: she could feel the subtly uneven texture of the stone floor beneath her feet. This seemed to help greatly with balance, though naturally such shoes would be useless on a long march or battlefield. _Perhaps only an advantage in an indoor campaign, then_.

A step in the passage outside stopped her mid-stride. That, surely, was her visitor. _Jaime_ , she thought, idiotically, but of course it was not he.

The man who opened the door wore a heavy brown robe with a hood that threw most of his face into shadow. Beneath the hood, Brienne saw, his skin was pale and his cheeks were plump. “My lady,” he said, his voice soft, “my name is Varys. I think you are expecting me.”

“Yes,” she said. “Shall we go now?”

“Not quite yet.” Varys handed her the large, heavy canvas bag that had been slung over his shoulder. “Our mutual friend was unable to obtain your clothing and arms without raising suspicion. He begs that you consider these as poor replacements.”

Inside, she found a shortsword, mailshirt, belt, boots, and a helm, plainly but finely made. Near the bottom of the bag, a man’s breeches and a linen tunic were neatly folded. The breeches were clearly new, but the tunic… as she shook it open, she knew instantly who had been its last wearer.

Varys cleared his throat affectedly and turned so that he was facing the wooden door. “A few moments to prepare, Lady Brienne, and then we must hurry,” he said.

Brienne quickly shucked the many layers of the Septa’s handiwork into a crumpled heap on the floor, and set to dressing herself in the bag’s contents. “Does… does our mutual friend not think it will be harder to escape when I look—a woman of my stature, dressed as a warrior, tends to stick in people’s memories.”

“I asked him the same question,” replied the man in the brown robe, “but he said that he wanted you to be able to defend yourself, should it come to that. And I’m afraid it may very well come to that, no matter what you wear.”

She cinched the belt around her waist, and tucked the shortsword into it. Everything fitted perfectly, including the tunic, which surprised her, though she could not have said why. “I am ready.”

\-----

Varys led the way down a dark passage and up a circular flight of stone steps, away from the corridor that had admitted Brienne four days earlier. By the wan and guttering light of his lamp, she saw that the hem of his robe swept in the dust , erasing his footprints as he passed, leaving hers alone to mark their progress. He stopped in front of another cell door, identical to hers, and withdrew a ring of keys from some fold of his garment.

The key turned noiselessly, and the door swung in.

This cell was larger and more comfortably furnished than the room that had been her home in King’s Landing. Two unbarred windows gave onto Blackwater Bay, shelves of books lined the wall on either side of a confortable chair, and a large, canopied bed stood in one corner, a sheet of rough, cream-colored fabric shielding its varnish and draperies from fading.

Her companion drew one corner of this material aside, revealing an ornate wooden bedpost. His fat forefinger gently pressed on a carved cluster of grapes, and there was an audible creak from the bed.

Varys shook his head apologetically. “It was even worse on my way to you. Luckily, we are quite alone in this part of the tower, especially at this time of night. After you, my lady.”

At first, Brienne did not understand what he meant, but as he lifted his lamp higher, she saw that the mattress of the bed had inclined, rising several feet from the floor on one side, and revealing a set of crude steps disappearing into blackness.

“This part of our journey will be somewhat incommodious,” said Varys, as she gingerly descended. He followed her down, and she heard the same creaking sound, muffled this time.

The lamplight revealed a rough passage, so narrow that Brienne wondered how a man of Varys’ bulk could navigate it; however, the hooded man seemed to have no difficulty making his way at a very brisk pace, while she found her mailed shoulders were constantly bumping and scraping against the uneven walls.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“This particular passageway was made so that a prince could visit his married lover,” said Varys. “She was imprisoned here for adultery—for her affair with him, as it happened. He got six children on her in that bed, I am told.”

Brienne frowned. “Which prince was this? I have not heard this story.”

From his voice, she thought Varys smiled. “No, it is not a story that is much told. The prince became a king, and his love for that lady became unpopular to historians.”

They reached another flight of stairs that corkscrewed tightly around a slender stone column. At the bottom, Varys put a finger to his lips, and took out his keys again. The small metal grate in front of them swung open, and they stepped outside into a walled alley.

“I must leave you here, my lady,” said Varys regretfully. “I am at the bedside of a dying friend right now, you see.” Brienne did not see, but her companion continued. “At the end of this alleyway, you will find a small gate, followed by a larger one. This key will open both. Slip down the street beyond and you will eventually find the water. A grey boat is tied at the dock with a green rope, assuming no one has made off with it. In the boat you will find coin, wine, water and provisions that may keep you for three days or more. Row north, and land where you can disappear.”

“And then?” asked Brienne.

“And then run, my lady,” said Varys.

\-----

The little boat was just as Varys had described, and soon Brienne was skimming silently across the dark water, glorying in the feeling of using her arms for something more strenuous than reading.

The tunic smelled of Jaime, and as her body warmed with rowing, the smell grew stronger, mixing with the scent of her sweat. She rowed harder, finding satisfaction in the solid weight and pull of the oars in her hands.

The way he had looked in the courtyard that afternoon had left her momentarily tongue-tied. She had heard tales of the handsome Jaime Lannister, the golden lion, but she had never seen him look the part before. At Robb Stark’s camp, he had been bedraggled and sullen; and his time as her prisoner and as the captive of the Brave Companions had not improved his appearance. _But in white and gold, bathed in sunlight…_

And when his lips had pressed suddenly against hers, she had felt such an ache in her chest, like the weight of a heavy stone, but she had not wanted him to stop. 

 _He reminds me of Renly_ , she thought. _My king, my king…_ Renly taking her hand, leading her in a dance; Renly’s face as he threw her a yellow rose on his wedding day; Renly bleeding his life away in her arms. _I failed him_ , she thought bitterly.

She would not fail Jaime. He wanted her to live, to keep her oath to poor Lady Catelyn, and so she would.

Brienne bent low over her oars.  It was easier to row with only her own weight in the boat, and it flew with each stroke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Brienne has left King's Landing and Jaime behind, and the half-kiss they shared may be their last. 
> 
> Or maybe not! Trust Aunt Annabel, gentle reader: would I do that to you? Well, obviously you don't know me, so maybe that _is_ the sort of thing I would do; you have no way of knowing for sure. But all will become very clear quite soon.


	3. Jaime

The Knight of Flowers’ dark eyes blazed. “Gone? How can she be gone?”

Jaime shook his head, letting his unease manifest as frustration. “Her cell is empty. Five guards at their posts—including Ser Kevan Halund, your own man—swear that no one came in or out after her food was delivered at eventide.”

“She must have had help,” said Ser Loras.

“Undoubtedly.” Jaime nodded. “You know as well as I do: the Maid of Tarth has not the wits to devise a cunning escape unaided.”

The younger man bit at his upper lip, his jaw working. “This is intolerable. How far can she have gone?”

Jaime drew a map onto the table before them. “If she managed to secure a passage on some ship, she is already beyond our reach. Perhaps she has found a mount, in which case we _may_ be able to overtake her with fast riders; the problem is, which way is she going? If she is on foot, she will not have travelled far, but she may be _anywhere_ , as she is not constrained to the roads. And of course, she may still be within the city walls.”

“We should send ravens, my lord, and offer a reward for news of her,” suggested Ser Balon Swann.  “A hulking woman like that does not pass unnoted. _A curiously tall, tow-haired lady, with high-born speech and a mannish bearing, perhaps wearing a gown of_ —blue, was it, my lord?”

“I believe so,” Jaime confirmed, thinking with satisfaction of the thick bundle of blue cloth he and Varys had burned in his chamber’s fireplace at dawn.

“See to it,” said Ser Loras. “If my lord agrees,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

“Of course,” Jaime said.

The door of the Round Room opened, and Ser Maryn Trant entered, slightly out of breath. “News from the castle gates, my lord!” he panted. “The Maid of Tarth has been seen!”

Jaime’s stomach lurched. _Foolish wench,_ he thought _, discovered in a matter of hours. Did you stop to help a widow or an orphan in the street instead of doing what you were told?_ “Tell us, Ser Maryn,” he said, keeping his voice calm.

“Two stableboys,” said Ser Maryn, “saw a giant of a woman in a blue dress take a garron through the Iron Gate early this morning.”

Ser Balon beamed. “She is not aboard a ship, then! We may still apprehend her.”

The Knight of Flowers sprang to his feet. “May I have your leave to go after her, my lord? I will take a dozen men and go immediately.”

Jaime regarded him evenly. “Your sister’s wedding approaches quickly, ser. I can easily send some trusted knights on this errand in your stead.”

“I would do it myself,” said Ser Loras, his impatience barely contained. “If we move quickly, it may only take a day or two.”

 _And then? Will Brienne come back in chains, or will you gallop into King’s Landing in triumph, dragging her corpse behind you?_ He misliked the nervous energy he saw in the boy’s face: a brittle jar of wildfire, ready to ignite at the slightest bump or hint of heat.

“I will go with you,” Jaime said.

\-----

Why Brienne would have taken a horse, rather than the boat Varys had made ready, Jaime did not know. The stableboys’ tale had also mentioned a blue gown, which suggested to him that the whole thing was a fabrication, perhaps prompted by the promise of a few small coins as reward.

The inconvenient part of it was the detail about the Iron Gate. If Brienne had rowed north, as Varys had instructed her, taking to land as soon as was practical, she would likely be travelling along or parallel to the Rosby Road and the coast, heading toward the Twins.   _We will be looking for the wrong reasons, but in the right place_ , he thought ruefully.

He had just sent his squire to saddle his destrier when Cersei burst into his chamber. “You are leaving?” she said.

“Yes, but I—“

“Were you going to tell me first?” she demanded.

It had not actually occurred to him that he should. “It should only be for a few days,” he said, without answering her question. “I will be back before you notice I am gone. Think of it as a hunting expedition.”

She rolled her eyes scornfully. “Robert went hunting,” she said, “and he has been gone a lot longer than a few days.”

He felt a familiar pain, like he had been holding his breath for too long. _When Cersei wants to hurt, she mentions Robert_. “I will drink nothing but water,” he said patiently, “and our prey has no tusks.”

“Your prey is that ugly creature that killed Renly,” Cersei said. “No tusks, perhaps, but her sword has a taste for noble blood. I don’t see why you need to go on this errand at all. I need you here, in King’s Landing. Why do you want to leave me again so soon?”

“Leaving you is the last thing I want to do.” He caressed her cheek with his good hand. “But Loras is mad with grief, and I must see that Brienne is treated justly.”

“Hauled back to the city, trussed to a stake by her trotters, you mean?”  His sister leaned into him, laying a palm against his chest. “Send someone as your proxy. You need not go yourself.” Her hand slid downward, slowly.

“Cersei,” he said warningly, “I have to go.”

Her fingers had reached the top of his breeches. “Then go,” she said softly. “The door is right over there.”

“ _Cersei_ ,” he pleaded.

Her hand moved lower, and she raised triumphant eyes to his. “It feels like I am winning this argument, wouldn’t you agree?”

He felt his will slipping at her touch. Cersei’s other hand began methodically pulling at his laces. “I owe her my life,” he said. “I have to go.”

She drew her fingers along the hard bulge in his breeches in a long, hard stroke that drew an involuntary groan from his lips. Then her hand was gone, and she took a step away from him, her face hard. “Your loyalty is so moving,” she said. “Enjoy your boar hunt, brother.”

Turning on her heel, she stalked from the room, golden hair flying behind her.

\-----

The group of riders waiting for him at the Iron Gate numbered more than a dozen, Jaime saw at a glance. _Twenty-five… perhaps more._ “Ser Loras,” he called, as he drew his horse up beside the younger knight, “this seems a larger host than is strictly necessary. Our quarry is one maid.”

“One maid strong as an auroch,” said Ser Loras, “and the roads of Westeros have grown rather perilous in recent days, as you well know, my lord.”

Jaime nodded. “Of course, but a small party may travel at much greater speeds than a large one, ser.”

The boy smiled. “That is why we shall be two small parties instead of one large one,” he said, pulling a rolled map from his pocket. “One party will ride northeast, following the coast, making a detailed search of the byways and villages it finds. The other will ride quickly up the King’s Road to the north, cut due east along the Bay of Crabs, and then move south to meet with the first party on the Rosby Road. The Maid will have nowhere to run, and no retreat.”

 _No, she will not, especially as she has no mount._ Hopefully Brienne was not travelling too close to the roads. “An excellent plan, Ser Loras.”

The Knight of Flowers smiled, gratified. “If you approve, my lord, I should like to take command of the party that rides up the King’s Road. I have already chosen some of the swiftest riders for this task.”

“Then I will take the others up the coast,” agreed Jaime. “And we shall meet somewhere near Maidenpool, I expect. But Ser Loras,” he added, as the other made as if to depart.

“Yes, my lord?”

“She may be a murderer, but the wench is of a noble house. I would not have her harmed before she can face the King’s justice.”

Ser Loras bowed his head. “I understand, my lord.” He gave his mount a kick, and his riders followed him out the gate and away.

 _You understand, but you don’t care_ , Jaime thought. He must find Brienne before Loras did. Of that he was absolutely sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: daring-do and steamy developments on the road to Maidenpool (or possibly in the bushes _along_ the road).


	4. Brienne

The first time Brienne opened the small purse of silver coins, it was to buy a new tunic from a wagon travelling from Rosby to King’s Landing. The crone who sold it to her was half-blind and fully deaf, and seemed unaware that her customer was a woman and a stranger, calling her _Hayward_ throughout the transaction and regaling her with a ribald story about someone named Ilsa, told in over-familiar terms.

Brienne thanked her and hastily took her leave. In a copse of trees a mile further down the track, she stripped off her mailshirt and Jaime’s tunic, placing the latter carefully at the bottom of the bag she carried, and pulling the former on again over her new purchase.

She tried not to think why she did this. The old tunic was still wet with seawater at the sleeves, but that would dry with a few more hours in the autumn sun. _Still, it might prove useful to have two tunics, should the evening turn cold_ , she thought.

At mid-day, she found herself approaching a small village. Keeping away from the main road, she made her way behind the village’s non-descript inn, inhaling the appetizing smell of baking bread and frying meat.

A clatter of hoofbeats made her duck quickly behind a small shed. Peering over it carefully, she counted. _Ten red shields. Three green. And… one white._

It was Jaime. On horseback, he looked taller than she was used to seeing him. His face was tired, she thought, but he was still far from the muddy prisoner she had dragged for miles in chains.

One of the knights in red spoke at length to an aged man at the village well, then wheeled his mount to return to the others. They were too far away for her to hear their conversation, but two of the other knights dismounted after a moment or two, leading their horses under the shade of a leafy oak a short distance from where Brienne was crouched.

“If she rode through the night, she’d be much farther north by now,” said one of them, a mustachioed youngster with lank blond hair.

“She may be following the water instead,” said his friend, an older, portly knight. “And we do not know if she has stopped for rest.”

“This is like flushing wild grouse back home,” said the younger man. “We should set hounds to baying, or bang on our shields.”

“Scare the pig-faced bitch out from whatever bush she’s hiding in,” nodded his companion, “and right into Ser Loras’s company, if it please the Seven. Then we could go home. I don’t want to miss this wedding feast.” He dug a handful of dried meat from a pouch of his saddlebag and handed it to his friend, and the two lapsed into a comfortable silence, chewing amicably.

 _Ser Loras’s company_. Brienne wondered where Ser Loras was. If she ran east, she might find them there, waiting for her. Or perhaps they were coming down from the north to block her way.

She looked back at the cluster of riders, whose discussion seemed to be reaching an end. About half of the riders urged their steeds forward, and the two knights nearest her hastily remounted to join them.

Jaime remained, talking with the remaining four knights. She saw him glance her direction.

The heads of the other four were bent over a piece of parchment, and she decided to take the chance. She stood slowly, and stepped out from behind the corner of the shed, into his line of sight.

His eyes widened for a second, but he made no other sign. Brienne slipped back into the shadows, moving swiftly to the edge of the village.

\-----

By nightfall, there had been no further sign of her pursuers. She had continued to follow the Rosby Road, keeping deep into the trees and listening hard for the sound of hooves, but there had been none.

Her feet ached, and she was acutely aware that it had been two full days since she last slept. _Is it possible to sleep and walk at the same time?_ Brienne wondered wearily. If it _was_ possible, she was nearly doing it now.

She stopped in a small thicket to eat a bit of the hard bread and drink from her skin of water, and found her eyes drifting closed in spite of herself. Her bag was under her elbow, and she absently drew Jaime’s tunic from it, winding it around her hand and arm. It still held his scent. _For how much longer?_ she thought.

She held it to her face, feeling giddy and guilty at the same time, and for a blessed minute pictured herself back in the courtyard of the Red Keep, relived his kiss. A flush suffused her skin, and a sharp ache bloomed in her belly: a pull and a twist. _If Jaime could see like this, how he would laugh at me. The Maid of Tarth like a dog in heat._  But there was a kind of tortuous comfort in letting the tunic stand for the man in the cloister of the gathering dark. She pillowed her head on her folded arm, resting her cheek against the garment’s soft folds, and let her eyelids close. _For a moment. I’ll rest just for a—_

He came to her, then, golden armor shining like sunshine: across the forest floor, along a narrow bridge, under the green canopy of Renly’s tent, over the stone of a bright courtyard, through the steam of a bathhouse. Then his mocking lips were burning against hers, and his hands—both his hands—were sliding over her, making her writhe and cry out.

 _Kingslayer,_ she heard herself say, _Kingslayer, my kingslayer, my king…_

She awoke with a jerk. _Horses on the road, and men’s voices._ The night air was cold on her flushed skin; she was not sure how long she had slept. But it was clear they were close by, and moving off the road, into the trees that were her hiding place. She remembered the young knight’s mention of dogs: could they be tracking her? She waited, hardly breathing, one hand on the hilt of her short sword. The sounds grew louder, then fainter, then faded away completely.

Before she could decide what to do next, a distant crunch in the bracken heralded someone’s approach on foot. Brienne readied herself again, then stilled as she heard a familiar voice.

“ _And who are you, the proud lord said,_  
 _That I must bow so low?_  
 _Only a cat of a different coat,_  
 _That's all the truth I know.”_

Jaime. _He might not be alone_ , Brienne thought, listening carefully, but it was surely just one man. The song continued, but seemed to be drawing away from her now, passing between her and the road.

“ _In a coat of gold or a coat of red,  
A lion still has claws_ —“

Before she could think better of it, Brienne pursed her chapped lips, and quietly whistled the rest of the refrain.

“— _And mine are long and sharp, my lord,  
As long and sharp as yours_.”

The singing stopped instantly, as did all sounds of movement. Brienne rose to her feet, her skin humming.

A moment later, there he was, before her in the thicket, his white cloak a pale blue shadow in the moonlight. Brienne’s heart thumped hard in her chest; she could not move or speak.

“Wench,” he said, breaking the quiet at last. “You are like a plague. Tell me how I can rid myself of you.”

She sighed. “You are on horseback, ser. I am fast, but I cannot fly.”

“No,” he admitted, “but I did think you would have the sense to depart the road after you saw us in the village.”

Brienne frowned. “I heard one of your men say there is a second party searching for me,” she said. “I thought they might be coming up along the coast, and I thought if I stayed put you would pass by.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” said Jaime. “And now you have chosen a campsite positioned between our camp and our sentries. Wench, you are indeed cursed.”

She stood still, looking dully at her boots, and feeling like a shame-faced child caught in disobedience. _I am so tired_.

Jaime’s voice, when it came again, was gentler. “Are you well?”

“I am perfectly well, thank you, ser,” she replied, “I am only sorry to have caused you so much trouble.”

There was a long silence, so long that she slanted a glance up at him. He looked irritated. “Did Renly teach you to be his docile gelding?” he asked, finally. “I’ve known you to be dull and stubborn, but never a meek sheep in a bear’s body.”

It was then that he noticed the bundle of cloth she held in her hand. He frowned.

“Have you hurt your—“ he began, starting toward her and grabbing at her wrist.

She realized that she was shaking slightly: shivering as if with cold, though the night air was barely chilly. _Don’t look at me, don’t look at me_ , she thought, but it was too late. His face turned to hers, green eyes filled with concern, and she knew her face was ever an open book to him. His expression changed subtly, passing through confusion to something like pity.

It felt as though a great sob was going to burst out of her, and she fixed her eyes on the ground again and wished the shadow that had taken Renly would come for her too. _He knows_ , she thought wildly, _he knows what a wretched fool I am._

She felt his hand tentatively pat her mailed shoulder, and her shame deepened.

“Seven hells,” he said, “I can’t—I don’t know what to—“

She found her voice at last. “I am a fraud,” she said hoarsely. “And now I am found out.”

Jaime caught up her hand again. “ _You are no fraud_. You are the truest—“

She shook her head wordlessly, wrenching her hand free. He moved to recapture it and she knocked his arm away.

“Brienne,” he said, and this time she shoved him, so hard that he staggered back several paces.

He straightened, a look of determination on his face. “Stubborn wench,” he said, and closed the space between them in two swift strides. Instead of taking her hand, he plunged his fingers into her hair, and covered her mouth with his.

Her ears filled with the roaring sound of blood, and she thought her knees would give way. Jaime’s lips were hot against hers in the night air, and she could not breathe. “Open your mouth,” he whispered, breaking the kiss for a second, and when she complied, she felt an undignified groan escape her as his tongue slipped between her lips.

The ache she had felt earlier re-blossomed in her belly; the sensation made her frantic, like she wanted to tear something. One of her hands had made its way to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. Without thinking, she gripped and pulled, liking the way it brought his chin up to rasp against her jaw, and Jaime made a sound between a growl and a sigh, his kisses becoming rougher and sliding away from her mouth to her throat. Brienne’s world narrowed to the point at which his lips touched her heated skin. She was lost in the red-black behind her eyelids, blind to everything but Jaime.

He broke the kiss again, resting his forehead against hers, and the thicket was silent for a while except for their labored breathing. “I am a bigger fool than you will ever be, Brienne,” he said at length. “But I couldn’t help it. If one of the sentries should stumble upon us in a second, please do me the service of striking off my head with your sword after you have dealt with him.”

She felt drunk and reckless, like she had on the night Renly had danced with her, but a hundred times stronger and without any wine. Jaime’s face was so close to hers, and she had to be nearer. She brushed her lips against his softly, and then more hungrily, and he exhaled noisily, his breath mixing with hers.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said. “If they catch us, Loras will kill you, and then he will have to kill me, and then Loras will be executed, and who will rescue Catelyn Stark’s accursed daughters then, pray?”

“I don’t care,” she said, letting words tumble out without thought, “I don’t care about any of that, I want—“

“But you do, though,” said Jaime, taking a shuddering breath. “What you’re feeling now is a conjurers’ trick: it looks solid but it melts into nothing. I know that well, just as I know you. You’re the truest friend I’ve ever had. You’re better than I can ever hope to be.”

She did not understand, but she took a deep breath of cold air and tried to still the hammering in her chest. "Where can I go?"


End file.
